


In our darkest hour, I'll find a way to be without you

by FloralBucky



Category: Daredevil (TV), Marvel, The Defenders (Marvel TV)
Genre: Angst, Crying, Developing Relationship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/F, Female Friendship, Friendship, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Polyamory, Relationship Issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-23
Updated: 2017-10-18
Packaged: 2018-12-18 21:49:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11883525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FloralBucky/pseuds/FloralBucky
Summary: Matt Murdock may be gone, but those he left behind must keep living.A story following Trish Walker in the months after Matt's "death" as she gets to know the families of the rest of the Defenders and tries to help them (and herself) heal.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So. The experience of writing this was very strange for me for dozens of reasons, but know that this is one chapter out of maybe four or five, several of which I have already written. I really wanted to explore Trish as a central figure in the aftermath of what I am calling the Midland Circle Incident, and this first chapter is completely inspired by the brief conversation Trish and Karen share in the police station in episode eight (I squealed). I also wanted to touch on the awkwardness of new friendships, because we've all been there. I'm including more detailed notes at the end of the chapter but sorry in advance for mistakes or inconsistencies - I wrote this super fast. Enjoy!

They go out for coffee.

Karen calls Trish first, surprisingly. Trish is usually the one to reach out, to text and call and drop by  _just to check in and say “hi”_  and to send care packages filled with soft-smelling soaps and little decadent chocolates and best-selling romance novels and fancy lemonade imported from this tiny restaurant she once visited on her tour through Asia.

So, yes, it is a bit of a surprise when Trish sees Karen’s name flash up on her cellphone as her ringtone tinkles politely. Trish puts her pen down and eyes her phone. She had been making notes on the schedule for next week’s radio shows, but this is infinitely more important. She gave Karen her number on That Day, before Midland Circle had exploded and before the true chaos had all begun and before Matt…before Matt. She never expected Karen to take her up on her offer to call and text at any time. Trish makes that promise to a lot of people.  _No, I am completely serious. Please feel free to contact me at any time. If I’m not available at that moment I’ll make sure to get back to you as soon as I can. I would love to talk with you._ And most of the time she means it. Trish genuinely likes helping people, and if being a shoulder to cry on or a metaphorical (or literal) punching bag or a nonjudgmental listening ear is what someone needs, then that’s what she’ll give them.

Although giving Karen her number wasn’t solely for selfless reasons. She knew Karen was an investigative reporter. Although she didn’t say anything about it at the time, the second Karen walked into the police station Trish recognized her. Trish had been following the careers of some notable New York reporters for a few months because, as she told Jess, she was hoping to include a bit more of an investigative aspect to her show. (The higher-ups would hate that, but she was Trish (Patsy!) Walker and no one could say no to her smile.) She had gotten word of this reporter who released a scathing story exposing an embezzlement scandal in of one of Manhattan’s most public law firms. Trish remembered thinking that it was an incredible bit of reporting, and after digging further into this Karen Page’s portfolio she was more than blown away. Of course, she didn’t say anything about this to Karen when they first met. That would have been a bit insane, considering the situation.

But she had given Karen her number and Karen had accepted it with a bashful little smile and now Karen is calling her. At 11:16 am on a Tuesday. Trish’s mouth is a little dry.  _Jesus,_  she thinks.  _You speak to thousands of listeners every day and you’re nervous to talk to one person._

“Pull yourself together,” she says out loud, and then she picks up the phone.

“Hello, this is Trish Walker,” she says in her best radio voice. There’s a slight pause.

“Hi, yes. This is Karen Page?” Karen sounds hesitant. “We met a few months ago when-” She breaks off.

“Yes of course, Karen,” she smiles through the sentence. “I remember you. It’s nice to hear your voice.” Trish cringes.  _It’s nice to hear your voice?_

Karen huffs out a little laugh. “You too. I was just wondering – I mean, I know you’re busy and all, so it’s totally okay if you don’t have time for this. The great radio personality “Trish Walker” probably doesn’t have time to just randomly get coffee with a woman she hardly knows. Oh god, that sounded sarcastic. I didn’t mean for that to be mean. I really do think you’re great. I mean you’re so talented and amazing and - ”

“Karen,” Trish cuts her off firmly, but she’s smiling. “I would love to get coffee with you. And I’m much less busy than you probably think,” she laughs. “Are you free today?” She looks around her office. Half of her studio is out sick today with a bug, and she has a bit of a sore throat, so her show is canceled. And no one can really stop her from leaving. “I’m not doing much.”

“Oh,” Karen breathes, relieved. “Ok. Yes. Great. I mean, yes, I’m free today. That sounds great. What about noon?”

“Noon sounds perfect,” Trish agrees, jotting it down on a sticky note on her desk. She knows it’s less than an hour away, but it makes her feel better to write all her appointments down. “I know this great little coffee chain that has like a billion locations in the city. I’m not sure where you work, but the closest one to me is in Soho? I can text you the address. It’s called ‘Birch Coffee.’”

“Hold on, let me look it up,” Karen says. There’s a bit of a rustling noise as Karen maneuvers her cell phone, and a slight tapping sound as she looks the place up on her phone. A second later she’s back.

“I’m actually not too far from there either,” she says. “It looks great! See you soon?”

“Yes, of course! Safe travels,” Trish replies warmly.

She can almost hear Karen’s smile. “Thank you! Bye.”

“Bye.” Trish hangs up.

“Safe travels? What the hell?” she mutters to herself as she drags a hand through her hair. A blonde strand is tangled in her fingers when she pulls away. She puts it in the trash can under her desk with a sigh. This new shampoo and conditioner routine is doing her no favors. Sighing again, she looks at the clock. 11:20. She tells herself not to stare at the clock and over-think her entire conversation with Karen until it’s time to leave, but she does it anyway.

 

*          *          *

 

Karen beats her to the coffee shop, somehow. Trish checks her watch again as she gets out of her car. 11:53. Her ploy to get there early and gather some semblance of control over her irrational and sudden nerves is now useless. She waves to her driver as he maneuvers the car back into busy New York traffic. She kind of despises having a driver, but after repeated brushes with death the studio had insisted that someone at least bring her to and from places. She had set a hard boundary on having a bodyguard. Luckily they listened to that. (Once again, the winning Patsy Walker™ smile is at least good for something.)

Karen’s face lights up when she sees Trish. She gives a little wave with the hand not clutching her iPhone and purse. Trish waves back as she makes her way over. Karen’s bashful eagerness is refreshing.  

There’s a moment of awkward fumbling as they decide whether or not to shake hands, but Trish finally just pulls Karen into a hug. Karen huffs with laughter and the noise vibrates in Trish’s chest where they’re pressed together. Karen smells like clean soap and Trish is a little (a lot) intimidated by her. She’s gorgeous, successful, smart, and she smells good.  _Come on, Trish._   _What is going on with you?_  

Trish is even more intimidated when Karen pulls off her coat to reveal her outfit. She is wearing a smart white blouse tucked into a form-fitting pencil skirt that perfectly matches the blue of her eyes. Her nude pumps are gorgeous and of course, they match her bag. Trish figures an outfit compliment is as good a conversation starter as any, and she really is impressed.

“Your entire outfit is amazing,” she says with barely-contained enthusiasm as they stand in line. “The matching bag and shoes – I mean, come on. Killer.”

Karen blushes. “Thank you so much. It’s a complete accident that they match, honestly, but I guess it’s a happy one. And the day when Trish Walker compliments  _my_ outfit is the day I die.” She laughs, embarrassed by her own words. “Your looks are always amazing.”

Trish grins and chooses to ignore the warm feeling in her stomach that comes at the thought of someone (Karen)  _paying attention to what she wears_. She knows that she’s a public personality, but she does work on the radio. Most people could care less if her form-fitting business slacks make her ass look good  _and_ go well with a blazer.

They buy their coffee. Karen gets a latte, with almond milk instead of regular. “I’m lactose intolerant,” she explains, wrinkling up her nose as she says it. Trish makes a sympathetic face. “I know. No ice cream for me, I guess.” Trish gets a cappuccino, and when the barista brings it over she sees that he’s drawn an incredible little rendition of her in foam.

"I’m a big fan of your show,” he says shyly when she notices the foam art. She takes a picture with him and chats for a second before he excuses himself to let them get back to their conversation.

“So,” she turns to Karen, whose slender hands are wrapped tightly around her mug as she waits. “How are things?”

They chat about nothing for a bit. Karen tells her about her most recent story, about this stray cat she found outside her apartment building last week, about Foggy. Trish tells her about the radio show, about Jessica, about the new color scheme she’s dreaming up for her loft. Trish finally explains to Karen how much she’s impressed by Karen’s reporting. Karen blushes a lot. They both pointedly avoid talking about Midland Circle, or the Hand, about Matt. He is very clearly  _there_ though, hovering uncomfortably over the rest of the conversation. Trish can see him in the small purple bruises under Karen’s eyes, the irritated skin of her nail beds, the occasional far-away look in her eyes. After about an hour of this Trish can’t take it any more. She knows that this is probably a bad idea, and that she doesn’t really know Karen well enough to intrude like this, but she has always been a helper and she can’t really stop herself.

She reaches out and takes Karen’s hand.

Karen’s wide eyes jolt to hers in surprise. She looks down at the table where Trish’s warm, smooth hands encompass one of hers.

“I know it is absolutely not my place to talk about this, and I’m sorry in advance if this comes across as intrusive, but I’m so sorry about Matt. I…” She pauses as Karen’s eyes get even wider and her body tenses, ready to flee. “I’m always here if you ever need to talk about him.  About anything, really.” She starts to take her hand back when Karen doesn’t say anything, afraid that she’s gone too far, but then Karen relaxes and squeezes Trish’s fingers. Her blue eyes are a teary.

“I- I don’t know what to say. Thank you. Thank you so much. You really don’t have to - ”

“No,” Trish cuts her off for the second time that day, but kindly. “I do have to. I can only imagine how hard it’s been. And how many people do you know who have been through the type of crazy shit we’ve been through?” It’s a bad joke, but Karen chuckles thickly anyway.

“I guess you’re right,” she tries for a smile. They sit like that in silence for a moment, looking at each other, before Karen pulls away to wipe at her nose with a napkin.

“God, look at me,” she laughs self deprecatingly, still dabbing at her wet face. “I’m crying in a coffee shop in front of a woman I look up to and only just met. Happy Tuesday.”

“Happy Tuesday,” Trish repeats with a little laugh, lifting her mug up for a toast. Karen clinks her own mug carefully against Trish’s.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello! Hope that was fun to read. I know this is slow but I'm always super angsty with my characters and I just wanted to take a breath and slow down the pace a bit. 
> 
> Fun fact: I spent like 30 minutes trying to figure out if Trish would live in uptown or downtown Manhattan, where Karen's office might be, and what appropriate coffee shop for the situation would be close to either of them (yes, Birch Coffee is a real place in Soho but no, I don't know if they serve almond milk lattes). What can I say. 
> 
> Anyway, next chapter includes a bit of Misty and a bit of Foggy, so get excited! I tagged Karen/Trish because I wrote their relationship kind of flirty and cutesy but I also love me some Jess/Trish so who knows...I may find a way to pull that all together. I don't know. I'm making this all up as I go along to be honest. I'll add more to the tags as the story evolves. See you soon for chapter 2!


	2. Chapter 2

They hang out several times after what Trish somewhat embarrassingly is referring to in her head as the “coffee date.” First is lunch in a slightly  grungy diner down the street from Karen’s office. Karen apologizes profusely about the state of the restaurant but Trish just gives her a look that says, “I know I work at a fancy radio station and I wear designer clothes and I probably have more money than a woman my age should have but that doesn’t mean I’m above eating in a diner.”

Next is coffee again, only this time they take a walk around downtown Manhattan. The air is crisp and the wind is harsh but Karen is warm by Trish’s side and her overpriced latte settles comfortingly in her stomach.

Then it is dinner at a fancy restaurant that Karen grudgingly lets Trish pick out, only resistant because  _ I know you’re going to insist on paying and we don’t need to go anywhere fancy and I don’t want to make too much of a fuss and – _ the list goes on. But Karen seems to enjoy the meal immensely, and she gushes about her grilled salmon for the entire ride back to her apartment. Trish now knows where Karen lives. That is…what it is, she decides, and tries not to think about it.

Today they take a trip to the police station to collect some files from the Midland Circle Incident from Misty Knight. After the NYPD and the FBI covered up the entire thing, including an enormous skyscraper collapsing in the middle of Manhattan, Misty’s captain no longer had any use for the evidence in the case they had been building against the Hand. No one would listen to him about what happened and he thought it best that any record of the event disappear. Of course, that doesn’t necessarily mean that he wants Misty to give it to two random civilians, but at this point she can care less what he thinks. Anyway, anything she can do to help Luke (and, grudgingly, his superfriends) is fine in her book.

So here they are in Misty’s office, not-so-discreetly shoving thick files into their briefcases. Well, Karen is putting files into her briefcase. Trish doesn’t think her oversized purse qualifies as a briefcase, but it does the job. Trish tries not to look at Misty’s right arm as they sort files, but she ends up glancing at it every few seconds. Misty sees her watching and raises an eyebrow.

Trish flushes. “I’m so sorry,” she placates, throwing a Trish Walker Smile in there for good measure. “It’s just that - ”

“It’s just that even after all the weird ass shit you’ve seen running around with people like Luke Cage and Jessica Jones, my “robotic” arm is still kind of insane?” Misty smirks. The way she says “robotic” is kind of mocking, like even she can’t believe something like that actually exists/functions/is attached to her body.

“Exactly,” Trish admits bashfully, giving Misty another little smile. All tact is kind of already thrown out the window, so she takes a step closer to Misty. “Do you mind?” She gestures to Misty’s arm.  

Misty shakes her head and holds out her right arm for Trish and Karen to see. She’s wearing a red, short-sleeved shirt so it’s easy to see the metallic workings of her new arm. Tiny gears shift almost imperceptibly as she moves her fingers, clenching and unclenching them so the two women can tell how it moves.

“That’s incredible,” Karen breathes. It’s the first thing she’s said since they’ve been at the police station. She looks at Misty with wonder. “How?”

“Danny Rand apparently owns a state-of-the-art hospital with some very, very advanced doctors. Even Bucky Barnes’ arm isn’t as cool as mine. Or so I’ve heard.” Misty grins at her own joke and they all laugh a little.

Karen asks a few questions and admires Misty’s arm. Trish tries not to smile at how much Karen’s attention makes Misty glow. She zones out for a minute, watching Karen watch Misty, and snaps back to the present when Misty laughs.

“…yeah the doctor told me I could get it in gold. Or red. I figured I would stay with simple silver for now, not get too showy. Although I would not be opposed to something a little fancier in the future. We’ll see.”

They leave Misty with promises to contact her if any of them need anything and briefcases (and oversized purses) filled with papers. They spend the rest of the day sorting through the evidence in Karen’s office, categorizing it into specific file folders and making note of anything they hadn’t seen before. Some of the documents are gruelingly specific, details of horrid murders and torture. The photographic evidence is even worse, and Trish has to step outside once or twice to take a breath of fresh air and settle her racing heart. Karen’s face becomes more and more drawn as time goes on and Trish tries not to worry, she really does, but she’s seen Jessica fall into moods like this and it never ends prettily. Just when she thinks she’s going to have to say something to Karen, a phone rings.

Karen practically jumps out of her seat in shock. She scrubs at her eyes roughly before digging her iPhone out of her purse. When she sees the caller ID she practically falls over herself in her hurry to answer it. 

“Oh my god, Foggy,” she groans apologetically as she starts throwing things in her purse. “I am so, so sorry. Yeah we’re on our way. I completely forgot I’m sorry. Yeah, yeah. I’ll bring her. Yeah. Of course. Sorry again. Yeah I’m fine. See you soon. Bye.” She hangs up the phone and has her coat on before Trish can even blink.

“So I promised Foggy that I would go over to his place for dinner tonight and he told me to get there at 6:30 and it’s now 7:15 because I am a horrible friend and completely lost track of time and I’ve been avoiding him and he kind of knows it too so I promised that this time I would really try to be there but of course I got sucked back up into all this craziness and I have to run over there right now and I told him that I would bring you if you want but no pressure if you don’t want to come that’s completely fine.” Her voice is wavering a bit by the end and Trish can see that she is very close to the end of a very fine rope.

“Of course I’ll come,” Trish soothes, grabbing her own coat as she stands. “I think I told you that I wanted to meet Foggy. For real this time.” She hesitates after that last part, holding her breath as she waits for Karen’s reaction, but Karen is too distracted to even notice any mention of Before (Before the Incident).

“Oh, great,” Karen breathes, her muscles relaxing, and then they’re off.

The ride to Foggy’s apartment is mostly silent. Karen gives his address to Trish’s driver, who doesn’t seem the least bit disgruntled at having to take a trip uptown during the tail end of rush hour. Karen seems nervous, bouncing her leg up and down and and chewing on her bottom lip. Trish doesn’t press her, not now, not like this, but she rests her hand on Karen’s thigh in what she hopes is a comforting way. Karen’s stockings are rough against her calloused palms and she shivers at the feeling. Karen gives her a weak smile in return, but it’s better than nothing, Trish reasons.  _ Besides, you can’t fix everything. Some people are just plain sad and then other people are devastated over the loss of their friend/ex-lover whose body was never found. You are definitely not qualified to deal with the latter.  _

The car pulls up to Foggy’s apartment building. They get out, take the elevator up to the 11th floor and Karen takes a deep, steadying breath before knocking on Foggy’s door.

One of the friendliest-looking men Trish has ever seen is on the other side.

Granted, Trish has seen Foggy before, but she didn’t spend a lot of time looking at him when her entire being was burning with nerves for Jess and the others and the fate of New York City. When he pulls Karen into a hug Trish can smell his sharp, earthy cologne or aftershave or shampoo or something but whatever it is it makes her want to curl up in front of a fire and take a nap. When Karen steps back so Trish and Foggy can greet, she becomes even more certain that this man and her will get along just fine.

His sleek blonde hair has grown out a bit since she last saw him and now it brushes the bottom of his ears as he moves. He is wearing a blue dress shirt and black business pants. He’s shed his tie and jacket (Trish can see the latter tossed over the back of an armchair through the doorway) and his sleeves are rolled up halfway. His smile is bright despite the bags under his eyes and he makes a soft padding noise in his sock feet as he moves in give her a hug.

“Trish!” he says enthusiastically, voice is muffled by her scarf as he wraps her in a tight hug. “It’s great to finally meet you. Karen’s told me a lot about you.”

“You too!” she replies warmly. This is the part she’s good at. The schmoozing, the small talk, the first impressions. She doesn’t think she’s ever met anyone that disliked her at first glance. When you grow up like she did you’re forced to learn how to force people to like you. She tries to tone it down.  _ Foggy isn’t a reporter or a talk show host or a potential donor. You don’t need to treat him like one. _

She smiles brilliantly at him as he lets them in ( _ tone it down, Patsy _ ), looking around his apartment with interest. He has good taste, but it looks like the type of taste you acquire when you’re trying to impress someone else. He leads them to the kitchen/dining room/work space.

He laughs when sees her appraising the creative, multipurpose use of the room. His laptop is balanced precariously on top of a cookbook which is in turn balanced on top of a hardcover novel and some sort of law book. Measuring cups and spoons are piled around the little computer tower. A cutting board is dangerously close to falling onto the floor and the knife resting on top of it looks sharp enough to stab right through her foot, should she accidentally knock it down. The back half of the kitchen table is covered in files and papers and several uncapped black and blue pens are scattered amongst the mess. “We can’t all be Trish Walker, huh?”

Karen shoots him a look that says “You can’t make mildly rude jokes about other people’s levels of wealth, especially when you barely know them, Foggy.” Trish looks at him for a minute. She  _ was  _ just subconsciously judging his kitchen arrangement. No matter how much she’s trained herself against it, her “I’m a privileged white girl” upbringing rears its ugly head at the worst of times. When she is in a situation her mother would disapprove of, or talking to someone her mother would disapprove of, or wearing something her mother would disapprove of.  _ That doesn’t become you, dear _ , she would hear in her head.  _ You shouldn’t wear that, it makes your thighs look chubby. You shouldn’t hang out with him, he’s below you. You shouldn’t eat that, it’ll make you bloat and you want to be able to fit in your dress tomorrow, don’t you? You shouldn’t get too close to Jessica, she’s just here for the publicity, darling.  _  She tells herself that the first thought that comes into your head is only overtly offensive if you don’t immediately recognize that it is wrong, and she always knows when it’s wrong. And she never says anything out loud, never brings her mother’s putrid, lingering influence to the light.  _ It’s not the easiest thing in the world to break that kind of socialization _ , her intrusive thoughts and occasional nightmares and constant, nagging feelings of insecurity and lack of self-worth keep telling her. So no, she’s not mad that Foggy called her out.

She quirks an eyebrow at him. “And not all of us can be Foggy Nelson, big-shot lawyer and chef extraordinaire. Is that paella I smell?” She takes a step closer to the stove, her eyes fluttering shut as she takes in the warm, homey aroma.

“Yep, shrimp,” Foggy says, a bit of pride coloring his voice. “I once bribed a cop into giving me a details about a super juicy case with this exact dish.” Karen rolls her eyes.

“Hardly. You bribed the cop’s mom with cigars and then  _ she  _ convinced her son to give you the case. The paella was just icing on the cake.” Foggy scowls at her.

“Yeah, yeah, you’re probably right, but you don’t have to wound my pride like that. Just let me ride high, Karen.” He presses a hand to his heart. “Let me ride high.”

Karen rolls her eyes at him again, but she’s smiling. Trish is relieved. This dinner is exactly what Karen needs. 

They help Foggy clear off his table, Trish losing her blazer and shoes somewhere in the process. By the time they sit down to eat she’s barefoot in her blouse and pants, her hair thrown up into a high bun. Karen has also thrown her coat and shoes somewhere and she looks much more relaxed in her stocking-feet.

There’s a bit of silence as everyone digs in, nodding and making appreciative noises. Trish swallows her bite and takes a sip of water before pointing her fork at Foggy.

“You, my good sir, are one stellar cook.” The way she says it would probably sound sarcastic coming out of anyone else’s mouth, but her voice has a quality that imbues every word with sincerity and Foggy clearly appreciates the compliment.

He takes a mock bow. “Why thank you, m’lady. It is how I wooed Karen, and now you.” She laughs. Karen gives him a little playful shove on the arm. They eat in comfortable silence for another minute.

“So,” Foggy starts, putting his fork down and folding his hands on the table. He seems serious now, concerned. Trish imagines that this is how he looks with his clients. “How are you? How are things? How’s Jessica?”

Trish runs her tongue over her lips before she speaks, tasting garlic and the remnants of her lipstick. “I’m doing well, thank you for asking. My radio show is doing well, and I mentioned to Karen a few weeks ago that I’m planning to remodel my apartment because...well, because.” She doesn’t want to bring up the fact that every time she steps inside and sees her walls and bedsheets and floor she just thinks about when Simpson was leaning cockily against her walls or writhing underneath her in those sheets or pressing her against the floor, dragging the life out of her. “So, that’s good,” she presses on. Foggy gives her a look like he somehow heard her thoughts, but he doesn’t interrupt her. “Jessica’s...Jessica. She doesn’t eat much, doesn’t sleep, her apartment’s still a mess, and she drinks too much.”  _ Even for her, _ is what Trish doesn’t say out loud.  _ She drinks too much even for her.  _ But they all hear it in her pause, and Karen’s eyes tighten.

Karen throws herself into her work; Foggy tries and fails to pretend like nothing happened, like Matt is still there with his lopsided little smile and fluffy hair and his  _ oh god, Matty,  _ I _ miss you so much, oh god _ ; Jessica drinks; and Trish desperately tries to help everyone and anyone. They all have their ways of coping.

Foggy grimaces. “You should invite her over sometime. As a matter of fact, we should all see each other more. Us, Jessica, Luke, Claire, Misty, Colleen. Hell, even Danny, although something about that kid gets on my nerves.” He shakes his head ruefully. “Even though I still have this slightly shitty apartment, at least Hogarth is paying me enough to feed all of you at once. I hope.”

Trish leaps on the opportunity to change the subject. “How did you end up working for Hogarth, anyway? I haven’t seen her in months.” _Not since she was releasing a psychopath from his DIY torture room so she could use him for her own selfish gains,_ _all the while endangering herself,  Jessica, and the entirety of New York._

Foggy starts to tell the story, but then he catches himself. The meaning behind the look him and Karen exchange is clear enough to Trish: the explanation involves Matt, and Matt is a subject they cannot discuss.

“I applied,” he says lamely, instead. Karen picks at her paella, her eyes far away. Foggy chews the bite in his mouth slowly, his left hand clenched in a fist on the table. The silence is suffocating. Trish feels like they’re all going to explode. 

She laughs.

Foggy and Karen both look at her sharply, eyes wide as if they can’t possible imagine what she finds so funny. She laughs again at their expressions, breath catching in her throat.

“Look at us,” she finally gasps, gesturing around the table. “We can’t even have a conversation, we’re too afraid to say anything. That’s fucking sad.” She rarely uses the word aloud,  but she’s so angry at what happened to Matt and the fact that she can’t seem to help Jessica and she can’t do anything about any of their problems because they all seem too big for her, too  _ super _ . She’s a  _ helper, _ but she can’t fucking help. And there’s nothing really funny about it, but “ _ isn’t laughing better than crying?” her Mom used to say. “Make sure they never see you cry. Any time you think you’re about to cry, laugh instead. Then they can never hurt you. Then they’ll never know how you really feel. _

Foggy tilts his head and regards her. She’s not sure if he’s going to hug her or punch her. But then he slowly starts laughing, a loud, infectious laugh that reinvigorates Trish and must tickle Karen at least a little bit because then they are all laughing and it’s ridiculous and inappropriate and horrifying and depressing and when they finish they are all crying and sweating and the remaining paella on their plates is forgotten.

“Let’s get ice cream,” Foggy suggests, although it is more of a command than a suggestion, so they put on their coats and shoes and walk down the street in the middle of winter to get ice cream. Trish watches Karen and Foggy as they savor their sorbet and rocky road, respectively. She’s watching them so closely, making sure they’re okay and that no one’s going to have their inevitable breakdown right there on the sidewalk, that she trips over a snow bank.

Foggy catches her. “Woah there, girl,” he says with a grin as he pulls her upright. “Don’t want to lose your salted caramel.

Trish doesn’t believe in fate or friends at first sight, not really, but after that night what was once TrishandKaren becomes TrishandKarenandFoggy and she finds that she is perfectly okay with that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I struggled a lot with writing Foggy (Tbh I struggle to get all their voices right) but I'm overall pretty satisfied with this chapter. Also despite the Trish/Karen tag I decided that they're gonna stay (mostly) platonic. Get ready for some Jess/Trish in the next chapter (aka my favorite emotionally constipated babies)!! Also past Matt/Foggy is implied in this chapter! (Maybe Matt/Foggy/Karen, but I haven't made up my mind yet lol I'm all over the place.)
> 
> Once again I'm completely making this series up as I go so sorry if the chapters don't seem connected or if something doesn't make sense. I'm honestly just here for a laff.


	3. Chapter 3

Jessica climbs into Trish’s apartment through her window one night.

Trish is in bed with her eyes closed, desperately willing herself to fall asleep. She feels wired. She has an important interview on her show tomorrow and the less sleep she gets the more likely she’ll be to say something ridiculous on air. (Realistically Trish knows that even if she gets zero sleep the show will go perfectly. She has trained herself to always be perfect on Trish Talk. _Perfection, perfection, perfection, no mistakes, smile!, laugh!, they love you! look at that they love you!_ But that doesn’t stop the cycle of thoughts.)

She hears a soft _bang_ come from her living room, and all thoughts of sleep dissolve instantly. She jerks upward in bed and is all but ready to grab one of the various weapons she keeps around her bedroom when she hears a soft “ _Fuck,_ ” followed by another thump. The adrenaline bleeds out of her body and she sags against the wall in relief before her entire body swells with anger. She storms out of her bedroom to confront the Jessica Jones shaped monster that is undoubtedly now crashing through her living room.

When Trish rounds the corner and flicks the light on Jessica freezes. She has one foot in the air as she tries (and fails) to maneuver around the cardboard boxes that currently dominate the space (Trish is finally getting to that remodeling and the painters had her pack up all her valuables). She’s soaking wet, dripping water all over Trish’s new carpet, and she’s shivering so hard she can barely stand. Trish tries to be angry at Jessica for sneaking into her high-rise apartment _again,_ she really does, but all she feels is relief that Jessica is _okay and there and oh god, Jess I haven’t seen you in weeks where have you been why don’t you answer my calls I care about you I want to help you I missed you I missed you I miss you I lo-_

But she doesn’t say anything. She just lets go of her robe where she was clutching it to herself and helps Jessica step over the boxes and into the kitchen. The second Jessica is free from the maze she makes an unsteady beeline for Trish’s cabinets, pulling out a glass and the whiskey that she and Trish both know is only in there for her. She starts to pour herself some, but her fingers are so clumsy and her hands are so shaky that she can’t really lift the bottle. She makes an almost inaudible noise of frustration and tries again, but this time a splash spills onto Trish’s new marble countertop. Before Jessica can do anything stupid in her anger, Trish steps forward and carefully takes the bottle away.

“How about we get you cleaned up, huh?” she asks in the voice she knows Jessica would usually call patronizing. She pulls Jessica away from the kitchen and towards her bedroom door, leaving the spilled whiskey on the counter. The fact that Jessica goes willingly and silently is concerning in itself, but Trish pushes that thought aside. _Focus on her. Focus on now._

When they get to Trish’s room she leaves Jessica standing there and runs to her bathroom to grab a couple towels. When she gets back Jessica hasn't moved. Her arms are limp at her sides and she stares dead ahead, lost in her own thoughts or _god forbid_ disassociating. _Fuck_ , Trish thinks. _Fuck fuck fuck_. She puts the towels down on the bed and approaches Jessica with her hands in front of her.

“Jess,” she says softly, like she's talking down a wild animal. “I'm going to get you undressed now, okay?”

She doesn't wait for the reply she know won’t come, just starts to strip Jessica of her scarf and coat. Getting her out of her gray sweater isn't that big of a challenge -Jessica lifts her arms limply and lets Trish drag it over her head as her teeth chatter incessantly - but the skinny jeans are difficult. Jessica’s fingers are too stiff and cold to help Trish much, so all she can do is stand there as Trish tries to gently peel her pants off of her legs. After a few tense minutes Trish throws the sopping jeans on the floor by her bed, panting slightly. Jessica is still just standing there in her black bra and underwear, shivering, her arms now crossed self-consciously over her chest. Trish doesn’t think she’s seen Jessica look this unsure or _empty_ in years and she suddenly wants to _hurt_ whoever did this to her, to hurt them as much as Jessica is silently hurting right now. She bites back the feeling and grabs the towels, wrapping up as much of Jessica as she can. Trish presses Jessica close to her own warm body as she guides her back to the living room. She planned to leave Jessica on the couch and get her something warm to drink, but Jessica’s hands are shaking too much to hold a mug and Trish really, _really_ doesn’t want her to be alone right now.

So she pulls both of them onto the couch together, wrapping them up in quilts and blankets. She presses herself against Jessica, willing her body heat to soothe away the shivers. She can feel Jessica shaking, the violent, stilted trembles of someone warming up after having been cold for far, far too long.

They stay like that so long that Trish is dozing and sweating, almost certain that Jessica has fallen asleep, so when she hears a soft “Trish?” she nearly jumps out of her skin.

“Jess?” she says a little too loudly, a little too eagerly. The living room lights are on low so it’s hard to see Jessica’s expression; she’s a bit too far away so her face is patterned in shadow. Trish pushes herself into a sitting position, dragging the blanket off her shoulders and relishing in the cool brush of the open air against her overheated skin. She places a hesitant hand on Jessica’s warm, sticky neck and Jessica practically melts into her, ducking her head like a touch-starved cat. Trish exhales hard, her heart thumping. So it’s this kind of night.

She guides Jessica’s head towards her chest, curling her arms around Jessica’s upper body and pressing them together. All the tension eases out of Jessica’s body the second she’s leaning against Trish. She clutches at Trish’s arm to ground herself.

“I’m sorry.”

It’s the first thing Trish has heard Jessica _really_ say all night. Her voice sounds strong, but Trish knows that it’s an act. Even in her most vulnerable state Jessica Jones still needs to be brave. 

“Honey, you have nothing to be sorry for,” Trish whispers. She has been so mad at Jessica for weeks: for leaving Trish alone, for ignoring her, for being unsafe and for not accepting help. But now it feels like none of that even happened, countless days erased in a single close moment.

“Please don’t do that,” Jessica whispers harshly against Trish’s chest. A warm puff of air ghosts across Trish’s bare collarbone as Jessica speaks. “Please don’t pretend like I didn’t do anything. You can’t erase this. After Matt…” she trails off with a particularly violent shake. Trish waits patiently, stroking her hair. “After what happened to Matt, I fucking ditched you. You needed me and…and I needed you. And I just did what I always do and I got scared and disappeared. I got too drunk and I know you called dozens of times but I just couldn’t bring myself to care and then Luke found me and tried to convince me to accept help but I didn’t even listen to him.” She’s crying now, silent tears dripping off her cheeks and running into the dip between Trish’s breasts. “And I know I don’t say this enough but Trish, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.” She is breathing raggedly by the end, her nails digging into Trish’s arm as if the force of her physical strength will cement the intensity of her message.     

Trish’s heart _hurts_ for this small, broken creature that she calls her best friend and her first love and she brushes Jess’s wet hair from her cheeks as if that action will solve all their problems.

“Jess. Jessica Jones,” she says again, more firmly this time. “You have nothing to apologize for. I forgive you. For everything.”

Jessica lets out a breath that Trish didn’t even realize she was holding, sagging even further into Trish’s arms. Trish cranes her neck to look at the clock. 3:27 am. She slides her body down so she can lay on the couch, Jessica still tucked against her. She listens as Jessica’s breathing begins to even out. Finally, when Jessica sounds asleep, Trish allows her eyes to slip shut.

“I love you, Jess,” she whispers into the blackness. She knows Jessica feels it too, that they love each other more than each of them have ever loved anything, but she knows Jess is uncomfortable saying it, that it reminds her a time when the phrase was traded around cavalierly between mother, father, brother and daughter, a time when small fights with siblings meant nothing because you would wake up the next day and they would _still be there._

So she says it into the darkness, after she is almost certain that Jess is asleep, because she never, ever wants to put pressure on Jessica like that.  

“I love you too, Trish,” Jess mumbles sleepily against Trish’s skin.

Trish’s eyes snap open in shock and she stares down at Jessica where she is breathing softly into Trish’s stomach. “A whole lot.”

Trish’s heart thuds. Even though she knows Jessica feels it, sometimes it’s still so, so sweet to hear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay!! Finally some Jess/Trish!! This chapter was a bit hard to write but I love these guys. Prepare for it to get waaay angstier in the next chapter (which will also be focused on just the two of them) and then we'll get back to our other New York friends. Also I may not be able to write/post a chapter for a few days because I'm getting my wisdom teeth out (blech) but I will see you next time!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoy excessive italics and hints of Trish's childhood abuse because that makes up about 75% of this chapter lmao. I hope it's also clear that in the world of my story Jessica and Trish dated when they were younger (teens maybe?) and were in an on again/off again relationship before the Kilgrave incident, when they really didn't see each other at all. What we're getting in this chapter/the last one is them reconnecting romantically for the first time after all that crap.

Trish wakes up to the sound of someone rooting through her silverware drawer. For a second she freaks out, thinking that it’s happening again, that someone has gotten in  _ and they’re going to hurt her they’re going to hurt Jess.  _ But then she remembers that the person making a racket probably  _ is  _ Jess, and she remembers the state in which Jessica had appeared in her apartment last night. 

She sits up slowly, neck and back popping painfully. She groans. 

“I always tell you not to fall asleep on the couch,” Jessica says pointedly from the kitchen. Trish opens her eyes. Jess is standing behind the countertop, doing something that looks suspiciously like cooking breakfast. She’s back in her jeans and sweater, so she must have put them in the dryer while Trish was asleep. She looks almost normal, as if nothing even happened last night. Trish’s stomach turns. 

She chooses not to respond to Jessica’s comment, and instead extracts herself from the pile of blankets that trap her on the couch. Once she is free she spares another glance at Jessica, who is slicing up strawberries. Using Trish’s cutting board. And an appropriate knife. Trish narrows her eyes. It is unlike Jessica Jones to do anything properly. 

Leaving Jessica be for now, Trish walks sleepily to her bathroom. She looks into the mirror and groans at the unruly state of her appearance. Her blonde hair is all over the place, she has a red mark on her cheek from one of her decorative couch cushions and the skin under her eyes is bruised. She checks the tiny clock she has on her counter. 7:09. At least she didn’t sleep too late. 

After getting dressed and (slightly) taming her appearance, Trish goes back out to her living room, where Jessica has arranged two plates of bagels and strawberries, two mugs, and two napkins on the table. The air smells like coffee and smoked salmon. Trish is even more suspicious now. Jessica hates eating sitting down, and she hates setting the table. Trish sniffs Jessica’s mug. It’s...just coffee. No whiskey, no cloying stench of alcohol at all.

“Hey!” Jessica calls indignantly. She is standing behind Trish, folding the blankets they used last night. Folding. Trish honestly can’t believe her eyes. “Get your nose out of my food.”

Trish ignores her. “You’re folding.”

“Yes.”

“And you set the table.”

“Yes.”

“And you cut the strawberries with a knife. On a cutting board. I saw you.”

“Yes.”

“Please tell me you didn’t cook anything.”

Jessica rolls her eyes at that. “Don’t be an idiot. I went to the place down the street while you were asleep. You still like locs, right?”

Trish’s stomach rumbles.

Jessica smirks. They sit down to eat. 

They don’t really speak for most of breakfast, although Trish can feel Jessica watching her. She doesn’t mind; let Jessica wonder what  _ she’s _ thinking for once. She can’t believe that after everything, Jessica is just going to sit there and eat her bagel and pretend like nothing happened or like this whole situation isn’t completely insane. She’s not mad, because she knows that Jessica does better with actions than words and that this whole thing is in some way her method of saying sorry, but it doesn’t stop Trish from feeling off-kilter.

“Hey. Trish?” Jessica is saying. “Trish?”

Trish jolts out of her thoughts. “Sorry, I got a little lost there. What was that?”

Jessica looks pained for a second at having to repeat what she said, but the expression passes as quickly as it appeared. 

“I said thank you.” She’s looking slightly to the right of Trish’s head, and Trish can see her jaw clenching and unclenching.  _ Nervous tic _ , Trish’s brain reminds her. “Thank you for last night,” Jessica continues. “And I’m gonna try to be better. I  _ want  _ to be better. About things.” 

It’s a crap apology, and they both know it, but Trish knows it comes from a good place. Besides, Jessica actually  _ wanting  _ to do better, to improve and get healthier and actually come to Trish before it’s too late, before she’s shaken and silent and withdrawn - that’s what really matters. So Trish doesn’t even ask about last night, she doesn’t ask what happened or why Jessica was soaking wet or what made her look like she’d seen a ghost. She just throws Jess a well-practiced smile.

“I’m glad,” she says simply, and Jessica breathes out.

They finish breakfast and Jessica, who is apparently hell-bent on being helpful this morning, takes their plates over to the sink despite Trish’s objections. Trish watches her as she rinses off their dishes, tapping her bare foot a little against the hardwood floor, and it’s so effortlessly domestic that Trish gets overwhelmed for a minute. She squeezes her eyes shut to stop the sudden tears from overflowing. She doesn’t even notice when the water stops running, when Jessica kneels down beside her chair. 

“Trish? Are you okay? What’s wrong?” Jess’s voice is full of rare, soft concern and it takes all of Trish’s wavering willpower to not start sobbing right then and there. She thinks about lying, about telling Jess that she’s  _ fine, of course I’m fine, why wouldn’t I be? _ , about brushing it off for another day. But this is apparently the 24 hours of emotional confessions, and Trish figures she owes Jessica some semblance of truth, after everything. 

“I love you,” she whispers. “That’s what’s wrong.”

Jessica’s stills at Trish’s side, but before she can shut down or block Trish out or run away, Trish pushes on.

“That’s what’s wrong. Because I know you love me, and I know we love each other, and I try to be okay with the fact that all  _ us  _ is going to be is these hurried moments here and there, these brief periods of time when it feels like life is stable and we’re both fine and happy and  _ want  _ to be there with each other. Every day I try to convince myself that I’m fine with you running off playing hero and getting hurt and  _ constantly  _ risking your life and that I’m fine with you only coming to me for help when you’re half-dead or worse and that I’m fine with the way we work but  _ god _ , Jess I’m not. I’m just not.” 

She takes a ragged breath, her eyes still closed, and tries not to think about what Jessica’s face might look like right now. 

“You were my first friend and you are my best friend and I care so, so deeply about you Jessica that sometimes I think I’m going to  _ drown  _ in it, but then I open my eyes and you aren’t there anyway so it doesn’t fucking matter. And I know we live such different lives and I know we can’t have a traditional relationship, but honestly  _ fuck _ that. I don’t want that. Nothing with you is ever traditional or normal, Jessica  _ goddamn _ Jones, and that’s what makes it you, that’s what makes it us. But I just need to know if you really trust me and if you really want this because I can’t - ” her voice breaks. “I can’t keep going like this.”

When she stops talking the room is almost dead silent, the only sound her heart raging wildly against the inside of her chest. ( _ Let me out let me out let me out!)  _ She’s proud of herself that she isn’t crying, because the one thing she knows Jessica can’t stand is pity. Being pitied, pitying others...no. She won’t do that to Jessica, or to herself. She already feels pathetic enough. 

The silence stretches on, Jessica still not moving or speaking or maybe not even breathing, and Trish’s skin starts to feel hot and tight. She suddenly wants to run. She wants to do what Jessica always does and  _ escape escape escape  _ the problem because it’s too much, too fast, too overwhelming. 

“That was fucking sad,” Trish says suddenly. She starts to push her way out of her chair, shaking her head at herself. She feels ashamed and small and stupid,  _ stupid, you’re so stupid, Patricia, don’t you know how to do anything right?  _ Her arms are trembling. “That was so pathetic, god, I’m sorry, Jess. I’m sorry. I’m just going to go, I have to g -” but then Jessica reaches out and catches her by the forearm. 

Trish’s entire body tenses and she freezes there, halfway out of her chair, her head swimming. She doesn’t dare move, she doesn’t dare look at Jessica, because if she does she’ll probably start crying and then she won’t be able to pretend that she has even a tiny semblance of control over her emotions. (She almost never does when it’s about Jessica.) 

Jess pulls her back into her chair with controlled strength. Trish still isn’t looking at her, _can’t_ look at her, but then she feels Jess’s rough hand on her cheek. Her spine all but sags at the touch, and she feels confused and overwhelmed and _oh, god, Jess is touching me, we’re touching, she’s touchi-_

Jessica turns Trish’s head slowly, giving her the time to resist if she wants, but Trish is tired of fighting. So she lets herself be moved, lets Jessica turn her until they’re facing each other. She’s still shaking, hands trembling in her lap, and she’s almost on the edge of a full blown anxiety attack. When she finally looks at Jessica’s face, all she sees is the scared woman she knows who is too afraid to give away her love, terrified that it will end as badly as her last love did, horrified at the thought of opening herself up to someone and giving them the chance to tear her apart like Kilgrave did. Trish isn’t used to seeing Jessica without her mask, without the sloppily constructed drunk filter that she wears between herself and the rest of the world. 

“ _ God _ , Trish,” Jessica grinds out between her teeth. She sounds angry, ashamed, tired. “ _ God. _ ” She presses her thumb against Trish’s jaw, feeling where the bone strains against the inside of her skin. 

“I don’t know what to say. ‘I’m sorry’ isn’t enough, and it’ll never be enough. I feel like shit for making you feel like this. I really don’t know what to say.” She shakes her head angrily. “You’re the most goddamn important thing in the world to me, Trish. I need you to know that.” 

Trish huffs out an unsteady breath.

“I can’t promise you that I’m going to fucking magically change. I can’t. This is who I am this is who he made me and I’m going to try to be better but I can only do so much. I can never be who I was.”

_ I know!  _ Trish wants to scream.  _ I don’t want you to be who you were before. I don’t expect that and I never will. I loved you then and I love you now.  _ But she doesn’t say it out loud, she just burns where Jessica’s hand is still on her face.

“I’m going to do better and be better and show you that I trust you. And I’m going to call you and text you and visit you every goddamn minute if I have to if that’s what it takes to make you believe. I fucking promise, Trish,” she finishes with vehemence. 

Trish doesn’t say anything too dramatic, too overwhelming, because she knows Jess will feel pressured or pitied. She sighs, deeply, and finally lets herself fall against Jessica. She presses her words into Jess’s chest, hoping they’ll stay there, trapped in her ribcage and close to her heart so that she’ll always remember them. 

“That’s enough. You’re enough.”

 

(She’s late for work, but for once she doesn’t give a damn about Trish Talk.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There may be a surprise guest in the next chapter...


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! SO sorry it's been so long. I started college again and I've been extremely busy, but I can't just leave this story hanging!! I'm currently working on what should be the last chapter but I hope you enjoy this!!

They have brunch at Foggy’s house one Sunday. Trish, Jessica, Karen and Foggy. It was kind of Foggy’s idea, kind of Karen’s, and Trish had to practically drag Jessica along to the “ridiculous third-grade team bonding activity,” but she can tell that Jess is enjoying herself despite her perpetual scowl. 

They’re all crowded around Foggy’s tiny kitchen table, so close that Trish’s right knee keeps bumping Karen’s and her and Jessica constantly knock elbows, but it’s intimate and personal and even though Jessica grumbles about it and Foggy jokes about his unsuitable furniture, none of them really mind. This time, instead of Foggy cooking by himself, they had all pitched in to make the brunch frittata. Jessica was tasked with chopping asparagus, which Trish ended up just doing for her because she complained so much, Karen was in charge of mushrooms and herbs, and Foggy was...Foggy was essentially in charge of everything else. 

Karen was the last person Trish expected to suggest this recipe, but in her words: “I know I’m lactose intolerant but Foggy’s Frittata Alle Erbette is the most sinfully delicious thing I’ve ever tasted and if I have a raging stomachache for the next week then it will have been worth it, believe me.” So that’s what they made, and that’s what they ate squished together in Foggy’s kitchen, and that’s what they are still talking about as they move to Foggy’s living room to lounge around, mimosas (and in Jessica’s case, a mug of some sort of heavy alcohol) in hand. 

Trish is feeling pleasantly warm, her mimosa bubbling gently in her veins, and she suddenly feels so much love for these people she calls her friends. It’s been a month or so since her breakdown in front of Jessica and she feels like they’ve all fallen into an easy, comfortable relationship with each other faster than she could ever have expected. Maybe because they were brought together by a loss, maybe because they were meant to be in each other’s lives all along. Whatever the reason, Trish is glad. 

“I wish Luke and Claire could have come,” Karen says, her head tilting to the side. “Although I’m not sure where they would have sat.” Jessica snorts. 

“I’m sure they’re much happier off on whatever frigid, pretentious, up-state hiking trail they decided to land on this time. I can’t believe Luke agreed to that.”

“No one can say no to Claire,” Trish adds, and everyone makes some noise of agreement. “That woman is as stubborn and brilliant as they get.” The second Trish met Claire she practically fell in love. Claire is gorgeous, incredibly sharp and smart, witty, and Trish has a tiny (enormous) girl crush on her. Trish had practically begged her to be on Trish Talk to discuss what she does to help the people of Harlem and it had taken an hour of nonstop wheedling and promises to get her to agree. (They were set up for an appointment to make more plans for their interview next week and Trish could not be more excited.) 

“Hiking sounds fun,” Karen says, always the mediator. “I for one would love to take some time off. My boss is really pushing me.” 

“You know you love that job no matter what,” Foggy teases, and Karen takes a sip of her mimosa and pretends like they can’t see her all blushing. “And apparently Colleen and Danny are still off running around the world, doing whatever they’re doing.”

‘Whatever they’re doing’ is cleaning up the rest of the members of the Hand who had gone scuttering into dark holes after their leaders were killed, but it hits a bit too close to home to say that out loud. 

“I heard from Claire that they’re in Costa Rica right now. And they were in Belize yesterday,” Foggy finishes with a shrug of his shoulders. “I guess it pays to be billionaire-boy Danny Rand.”

“Literally,” Jessica mutters into her mug, and Trish gives her a look that she pretends not to see. 

“Well at least he’s using all that money to finish what he started,” Karen says firmly.  _ Finish what he started and in some sick, twisted way, avenge Matt.  _

Time passes and casual conversation soon turns into a giddy game of Never Have I Ever. Ten minutes in and Trish has already found out that Foggy has eaten several rice krispy, peanut butter, and tuna fish sandwiches (“It was college and I was broke and hungry!”), that Karen has never ridden a bicycle, and Jessica once made out with Trish’s high school boyfriend. 

Trish and Jessica are in the middle of an extremely one-sided argument about that last thing (Trish is angrily trying to talk and Jessica is ignoring her) when there’s a knock on the door. Karen, who is laughing behind her hand, doesn’t make any move to go answer it, so Foggy puts down his drink and gets up, grumbling about it as he goes. The door isn’t visible from Trish’s seat in the living room but no one’s really paying attention to Foggy as he answers it. Trish figures it’s a delivery, or someone selling something, so when Foggy makes a wounded noise so  _ gut-punching  _ that everyone in the room immediately falls silent, she knows something is wrong. 

Karen scrambles up, running to the other side of the living room so she can see around Foggy, and the second she gets a clear line of sight to the door she stops dead in her tracks. Her hand flies up to her mouth, a choked off sob shudders through her body, and then she is throwing herself towards the door. Everything happens so fast that by the time Trish and Jessica can get out of their chairs to figure out what’s going on all they can see is Foggy and Karen pressed so closely to whoever was standing in the doorway that all their limbs tangle together and Trish can’t make out any faces. The only reason she knows Foggy and Karen are even there is because their backs are to her, Karen’s blonde hair half on top of Foggy’s head and shoulder as they desperately cling to each other and whoever is at the door. 

Karen is full out sobbing now, her shoulders rising and falling erratically, and Trish can hear her making horrible, wretched noises of grief. Foggy isn’t making any noise at all, but he’s trembling. Deep down Trish knows who it is; she knows that no one else could elicit this type of visceral reaction from Foggy and Karen, but  _ it can’t be. It’s impossible. He was dead, the building came down on him, he was- _

And then Foggy is pulling back, wiping tears from his eyes, and Karen is moving away too, her right hand covering her mouth to stifle her sobs. 

And there, standing before Jessica and Trish in a t-shirt and some gray joggers, looking perfectly alive and healthy, is Matthew Murdock.

Trish prides herself on being composed in high-intensity or unpredictable situations - that’s part what makes her a good live radio show host - but this is unlike anything that’s ever happened to her. She’s seen Kilgrave manipulate dozens of people with his powers; she’s seen Jessica throw cars, break things made of marble and jump higher than an average human should be able to; she’s seen things that most New Yorkers could never even dream of seeing. But seeing a man that she thought was dead for  _ months  _ standing right in front of her is a little more than her composure can handle. She looks at Jessica, who is most definitely feeling this more than Trish, and she’s just staring straight ahead at Matt, her mouth hanging open slightly. Trish can see her eyes glossing over, tears gathering in the corners, but she’s not crying, not yet. Not in front of all of them. 

No one’s moving, and it’s awkward and horrible and Karen and Foggy are still crying and Matt is just standing there limply, his red glasses hiding his eyes. Trish can see that his jaw is tense. Her body makes a decision for her before her brain even has time to process her actions and then she’s moving towards Matt. No one else moves, save Karen shaking as she cries by Matt’s side. Trish gets about a foot or two away from him, too close for comfort but exactly as close as she wants to be, and she starts to raise her hand. 

Matt tenses visibly at her movement, as if he expects her to strike him, and she strongly considers taking a step back and aborting this whole attempt because  _ if this makes anything worse I swear to god… _

She holds out her hand for him to shake. 

“I’m Trish Walker,” she says, and her voice is shaking a little despite her best efforts. It’s not that she’s scared of him, per se, but the situation is definitely scary and emotional and even Trish (Patsy!) Walker has to let others see her sometimes. 

“I’m Trish Walker,” she says, “and it’s really great to finally meet you. I’ve heard so much about you, Matt.” 

There’s a slight pause, and it feels like everyone (including Matt) is holding their breath, wondering how he’s going to respond. Trish’s blood is rushing through her ears and she hopes her palm isn’t grossly sweaty.

“Only good things, I hope,” Matt says finally,  _ finally,  _ with a rueful little smile. 

Trish smiles back at him, big, because she knows he can tell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SURPRISE ITS YA BOI MATTY


	6. Chapter 6

“You really have to put a goddamn label on the light,” Jessica yells from the entryway of Matt’s loft. “There’s like a thousand switches here.” She seems to find the right one okay, though, because a moment later the fluorescent bulbs flicker on with a sharp crackle and a hum. Trish is afraid that they’re going to sputter and die for a moment, but they hold on as well as can be expected.

“A label wouldn’t do anything for me so I don’t have a label, Jessica,” Matt retorts from his place in the kitchen. He’s standing at the counter chopping green pepper, his black tie thrown over his shoulder and his white dress shirt rolled up to his elbows. Trish tries not to stare at the way his muscles stretch and move under the shirt, she really does, but _damn._

“Well maybe a label would be nice for when you have _company_ over, Matt, so that they don’t accidentally shut off all your power or burn your loft down!” Jessica narrows her eyes at Matt as she sits back down next to Trish on the couch, and hopes that he’s paying enough attention to notice. Her biting sarcasm is very effective by itself, but it is even more intimidating when accompanied by scathing facial expressions.

Matt rolls his eyes at almost the exact same time that Trish does, and she can’t help the small snort that escapes her. Jessica punches her on the arm.

“Hey!” Trish objects, pulling away. “It’s not my fault that Matt and I both know exactly how to deal with you. We should teach a class. ‘How to navigate the perils of Jessica ‘goddamn’ Jones.’”

Foggy laughs this time. “You do say ‘goddamn’ a lot. Why do you say that so much? I’ve been meaning to ask you that for months.”

“Why do I-?” Jessica starts, then scoffs. “None of your business. It gets my goddamn point across.”

“At this point I think she says it just to irritate Matt’s delicate Catholic sensibilities,” Karen says coyly from behind the kitchen counter.

“ _Delicate_ Catholic sensibilities?” Matt objects at the same time that Jessica says, “Irritate? If I wanted to irritate Horns over here he would know it.”

Foggy, Karen, and Trish all give each other a look before Karen slides up behind Matt and wraps her slender arms around his waist.

“Aw, don’t pout Matty,” she says in a mockingly sweet voice. “Your delicate Catholic sensibilities are part of your charm.”

“Well, it’s good to know I have charm,” Matt deadpans. He smacks Karen’s hand as she steals a green pepper slice from the cutting board lets her take it anyway. She bites into half and then tosses the other half to Foggy, who catches it rather remarkably in his mouth.

“What!” Trish exclaims. “Everyone’s revealing their true talents tonight. Matt can cook, Foggy can catch green pepper in his mouth from a whopping distance of ten feet, and Jessica can turn a light on!”

Matt snorts. “Oh, fuck you very much,” Jessica grumbles, but she leans back against Trish’s shoulder anyway.

“Matt, can I turn the TV on?” Trish asks, craning her neck so that she can look at him upside down. “The good news comes on in a minute.” She can physically feel Jessica restraining herself from making a joke about “the good news.”

“Yeah of course,” Matt responds, gesturing in the general direction of the coffee table where the remote is. She clicks it on and then they all settle in, the only other sounds Karen and Foggy’s soft conversation and the soothing _schlick, schlick_ as Matt slices into the vegetables.

After about an hour the program is over and the local news comes on. Matt’s finishing up dinner, so Foggy and Karen are getting out plates and silverware. Trish offers to help, but Jessica is currently dozing softly against her and the image is so shocking to everyone but Trish that they all but forbid her from doing anything that might disrupt the scene. (Foggy takes a few pictures for blackmail purposes.) Trish is half paying attention to the news, half trying figure out a way to disentangle her arm from Jessica’s before it falls asleep completely, when her face pops up on the TV.

She is mildly startled, but it isn’t like this hasn’t happened before. Trish Talk is pretty famous, she’s somewhat of a celebrity (although she hates saying that, even to herself), and the news sometimes reports on things she says and does on her show. She can’t remember discussing anything particularly radical this week, however, so she turns the volume up a few clicks.

“...and former child star Patricia “Trish” Walker just came out as bisexual today on her popular talk radio show, Trish Talk...”

Trish stops dead. The room has fallen completely silent. She can no longer hear Matt, Karen, or Foggy moving in the kitchen behind her, and Jessica is now most definitely awake against her arm.

“You did what?” Karen squeaks, at the same time that Foggy exclaims, “You’re what?” Matt just stands there with his mouth open.

“Shhhh, shhhh, shhhh,” Trish hushes them urgently and turns the television volume up more. She needs to hear what this news anchor is saying.

“...today’s topic on Trish Talk was gender identity and sexuality amongst today’s youth, and like at the end of every show, Trish accepted some calls from listeners. One of her listeners, a young woman by the name of Katrina, gave an inspiring and informative statement about being excluded from queer spaces as a bisexual woman. When she was finished, Trish reportedly said this…” Trish’s own voice started to sound from the TV as they played audio from her show.

“I completely understand where you’re coming from, Katrina. As a bisexual woman myself, I often get misjudged for or categorized by aspects of my sexual and romantic preferences. This is an enormous, often unaddressed problem within the queer community and I’m so glad that you brought it to all of my listener’s attentions today. I wish you the very best and thank you so much for calling in.” The audio recording ends there.

“The radio show ended after that caller,” the news anchor begins again, “so there was no immediate reaction to the news. But soon after Trish Talk began getting thousands of comments on its Instagram, Facebook, and Twitter. Fans were, and still are, going wild over this revelation about Trish Walker’s sexuality, and she has yet to comment or make an official statement…”

Trish turns the volume down. Before she can think or say anything, Foggy and Karen are in her face.

“Wait, Trish, I didn’t know you were queer!” Foggy is saying, his eyes wide. “Or do you not go by queer? I’m not trying to ascribe labels to you. Oh my god I can’t speak. This is so amazing. Why did you decide to come out today? Why didn’t you tell us?” He’s panting a little bit as he finishes, but she can’t tell if that’s from sheer excitement or the literal parkour he had to perform to vault himself over the back of the couch ten seconds ago. Before she can answer any of his questions, Karen is opening her mouth.

“Trish! I can’t believe we didn’t know about any of this. I mean, of course it’s completely fine for you to keep parts of your private life secret and you are totally allowed to do your thing without us infiltrating every aspect of your life but look at us! One big happy gay family! This is so exciting! How in the world did you-”

“OKAY! Okay,” Trish interrupts loudly, before Karen can go on forever. Trish is never loud, so Karen stops short with a mildly startled look on her face. Matt is still just sitting silently, but Trish can feel his gaze burning into the side of her head. She runs her hands down her thighs. She did _not_ expect tonight to be some big thing, and she’s pretty exhausted from work. She loves her friends, but how freaking obtuse can they be?

“Listen. First, what I said on my show today is right. I’m bisexual, with a general preference towards women. Just to put that out there. Second, I was _not_ trying to “come out” on my show today. I honestly didn’t think it would be any sort of a surprise to anyone considering how many times I’ve talked about my sexuality in the public before. And not just alluding to being LGBTQ,” she says before Foggy can interrupt her. “But actually blatantly telling a reporter that I’m bi or talking about it on late night or in acceptance speeches. So either I am not as obvious as I think I am or society’s attention span is really fucking short.”

“Probably the latter,” Foggy pipes up, and Trish gives him a withering glare before continuing.

“Third, I was really just trying to have an important discussion about identity on my show today and now the whole fucking conversation is about who I like to fuck, which is quite annoying frankly. I’m not annoyed at you guys at all, I’m just irritated that people are blowing this out of proportion. Anyone who pays attention to my career would already know this, but apparently it's news? I don’t know.” She runs a hand through her hair. Karen pats her shoulder sympathetically, and she gives Karen a little smile in thanks.

“Lastly, please tell me you guys are joking that you didn’t know I was bi. Please.” She looks around at the three of them as they shake their heads and look confused.

“Why would we know?” Matt finally speaks. One of his eyebrows is quirked up, the other furrowed in confusion. He looks like a puppy and Trish kind of wants to smack him. And then scream.

“Oh my fucking - oh my fuck,” she whispers, and then she laughs a little. “This is so sad that it’s actually funny. Oh gosh.” Jessica shakes her head.

“What’s wrong?” Karen asks. She looks legitimately concerned now.

“What’s wrong,” Trish gasps between slightly delirious chuckles, “is that Jessica and I are fucking dating. And none of you noticed. If anything screams “I’m not straight,” that does. Being in a relationship. With another woman.” Trish is sobering up a little now, but she still finds this entire situation insane. _This is unreal._

 _“_ You WHAT?” Foggy and Karen shout at the same time. Matt, once again, is stunned further into silence.

“Jessica and I have basically been together since high school, give or take a few rough years. She practically lives at my place. How, _how_ can none of you have realized this?” Trish looks around in awe. Jess is still pressed up at her side, regarding the scene with her typical cool, detached amusement.

None of them speak for a minute. Foggy’s mouth is still hanging open.

“I guess we just thought you guys were really close friends?” Karen says hesitantly. “Although now that I say that out loud, that sounds like something a super sheltered straight person would say. Oh my gosh. Here I am in a queer poly relationship and I couldn’t even recognize that you guys were together when it’s been right in front of me for months. I’m revoking my gay card. Here it is. Take it.” Jessica actually laughs at that.

“For what it’s worth,” Matt says with a devious little smile, “you guys are a cute couple.”

“Oh, shut the fuck up,” Jessica throws a pillow at him. Trish swats her knee scoldingly. Karen and Foggy start a mild pillow fight, which only ends when one of them hits Matt’s glasses off the coffee table and almost breaks them. Jessica presses herself closer to Trish’s side as all this happens, resting her head on Trish’s shoulder. Trish gives her a tiny kiss on the forehead.

Her heart is full. 

(Eventually they manage to get up, eat dinner, and have a very engaging discussion about Trish’s radio show. She is only mildly offended that none of them actually listened to it in real time, but that’s just another battle she won’t win. Sometimes, with family, you have to make sacrifices.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wooohoo!!! I can't believe I actually finished, but I'm glad I did. The first chapter is so different from the last chapter and the continuity/narrative is spotty at best, but I very much enjoyed writing this and I hope you had fun reading it! Thank you so much for supporting my fic and I love you all so much <3


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